Comfort Food

If you never had the pleasure (and I do mean pleasure in its purest form, the form of the ultimate happy place you go to when you need escape, escape from the reality of any given situation) of eating Hot Cross Buns, I truly hope there is something in your life that compares to this. Something that brings you joy. Something that feeds your soul. Hot Cross Buns are my comfort food.

These simple treats, humble mixtures of flour, eggs, yeast and raisins (not currants, please, the raisins are just enough) have historical significance in Christianity and carry with them a multitude of folklore tales (I particularly like the thought that they should be kissed before eaten, however this could bring about a 'kiss my bun' remark and that's been overdone lately). Regardless of their heritage, they are my comfort food.

With the closing of Piscopo's Bakery, our local bakery that truly mastered the art of the Hot Cross Bun, my sister and I have searched for a replacement without success. The grocery store bakeries try but cannot come close to producing the perfection of Piscopo's. Trust me on this, we've tried them all. They use currants and the frosting is too thin. I know what they should look like and what should or should not be in them, they are after all, my comfort food.

Last week I visited a homeless shelter, let me rephrase that, a homeless community, and was privileged to sit with members of this community and talk with them, hear their stories, see their courage (3/20 post - Courage) and learn from them what their lives are like. In that place, in that community of people who care is their bakery. A bakery they built and manage. A bakery that builds them and returns life to that community. I heard the people,their stories. I heard them. And before I left their community I bought bread from them and Hot Cross Buns.

I knew before I tasted them that they had it right, they were raisins only and their frosting was white and thick and held the shape of the cross. I knew I had found comfort again.

Yesterday, in my office, between meetings and emails and phone calls I had a rush of desire, a longing for comfort. I longed for the comfort these silly pastries bring to me, but not for their aroma or flavor. What I longed for was the sound of my mother's kitchen chairs as my mother, sister and I sat together on Saturday mornings with Hot Cross Buns and tea. I longed for the time we spent together, the sound of my mother's voice, her laughter. I longed for that feeling, that complete peace I held when my mother, sister and I were together on those mornings. That complete peace. That comfort.

Hot Cross Buns will always be my comfort food, but my mother and sister will always be my comfort.